On Charlie's Dock
It seems to be that level is the only way there is. We take it as an organizing principle. Have the car, get the girl, get squared away, be sure your reputation will withstand the scrutiny. And live inside your house of cards and tell the moths there not to breathe and so the fortress will survive. But I remember Charlie, how he went out in the day beyond the islands in his tin can skiff because it soothed his soul, and came home to his tilted dock and skinned his catch and sang his song of sixpence. Pocket full of lint.
And I know in this universe there is no up or down or right or left but everything just holding on the best it can. And so I dance on the ceiling and bathe in the frying pan.
Bless our gypsy soul.
3 April 2019
Texas Jim
Prospect, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca